Remembering the wolf and the maid, but never the moon in the trees, not last night.

And what of the whispers?  Not those.  Where are they?  All had been silence.  Or noise.  Perhaps an enormity turning to absence.

Now mirrored.  Must be lying down, in order to see, like this.

Yes, this: bright pupil, diseased sighs, and the webbing aging around.

“But, in fact, the eye sees itself in the above phenomenon merely as it does so in ordinary optical reflexion.

If the visual organ proper really were fire…if vision were the result of light issuing from the eye as from a lantern, why should the eye not have had the power of seeing even in the dark?”

– Aristotle, The Senses –

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